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Monday, February 27, 2017

Evie
Reid, on a whim, agrees to travel back in time to 1997 to change bad boy
Bellamy Lovel's path of destruction. She's smart with a college degree, but
she's still fan-girl crazy for the rock band, Civilized Heathens. Evie knows
despite all Bellamy's smiles and enthusiasm on the stage, he's destined to end
it all on one lonely night in a hotel room unless she can change his path.

Bellamy isn't keen on having Evie as his personal assistant, hired by his band
mates to watch over him, and keep him on schedule. However, there is something
about the woman that sparks his interest, despite his best to ignore her. When
darkness threatens to consume him, he realizes she may be the only light that
will chase the shadows away.

Excerpt:

She
spotted Bellamy standing on the ledge a few feet in front of her. Fear rose up
inside of her like a tangible force that urged her to go to his rescue. Her
legs carried her swiftly and her hands grabbed his dress shirt with some kind
of wild print on it, and she yanked him toward her.

Bellamy's
hands flew out in front of him as if to grab onto something to steady his fall.
"What the–" Her cry of alarm muffled Bellamy's curse when she
realized he was going to land on top of her, but at the last millisecond,
Bellamy twisted, grabbing hold of her as he fell onto his back with her
sprawled on top of him in an unseemly manner. Her hair had come loose from the
knot at the back of her neck. Her glasses were askew on her nose and she tried
to adjust them as she pulled on her blouse, which had risen above her waist.
Bellamy's hot hands were on her flesh and for a moment she'd forgotten to
breathe. She met his startled gaze and his lips pursed into a fine line.

"What
is wrong with you, lady?" he said and shoved her away, not exactly rough
but with a purpose to be as far away as possible from her.

She
sat in a heap next to him, feeling a bit deflated that he didn't appreciate her
attempt to help. "I was saving you," she said and lifted her chin.

"Saving
me? Lady, you almost sent me tumbling over the edge."

My
Review:

4 stars

I’ll admit, the main reason I wanted to read this
was because of the whole time travel mixed with saving a rock star idea. I am a
sucker for second chance stories, and this one sounded so unusual, I had to
give it a shot. Well color me impressed, because I am so glad I took a chance on
this. I was worried at first that the author would make this a “fix-it” story,
where one character came in to “solve/fix” the “damaged” character. Especially
with a topic such as this. However, my fears were soon allayed.

Part of this was due to the amazing characters. Bellamy
broke my heart. As someone who has lived through depression, I could easily
relate to him, and seeing his struggles so vividly yet well-handled was
amazing. I cried throughout the book, rooting for him to make a different
choice, to fight. And Evie…dear, sweet Evie. I loved how she was not only trying
to help Bellamy, she was also growing herself. She was just the right partner
for Bellamy, which leads me to the romance. The chemistry between Evie and
Bellamy was perfect. I loved getting to see them together, especially their
first meeting, and how they both changed each other.

My favorite part, though, was how the author
focused on the idea that even though Evie was going back in time to try and
change the past, the choice was ultimately up to Bellamy. There was no easy
wrap up, no single solution, no miraculous fix-it. It was a very real look at what
depression and what fighting depression looks like. At times, it was a bit much
for me, but I appreciated how the author handled it, especially being someone
who has dealt with depression for a good part of my life.

My only qualms with the story was that the beginning
felt a bit rushed to me. I would have liked more time getting to see the future
and learning more about the ramifications behind what Evie’s time traveling
interference could do (I’m a major Doctor Who fan, so I love the sciency stuff
behind time travel). Also, at times the sex scenes were a bit much. There was
one in particular that seemed a bit forced to me, but part of that for me I
think is because we were dealing with some heavy content matter as well.

Overall
though, this was an amazing story that I greatly enjoyed and highly recommend.

Karen
Michelle Nutt resides in California with her husband, three fascinating
children, and houseful of demanding pets. Jack, her Chorkie, is her writing
buddy and sits long hours with her at the computer.

When
she’s not time traveling, fighting outlaws, or otherworldly creatures, she
creates pre-made book covers to order at Gillian’s Book Covers, “Judge Your
Book By Its Cover”. You can also check out her published cover art designs at
Victory Tales Press and Rebecca J. Vickery Publishing.

Whether
your reading fancy is paranormal, historical or time travel, all her stories
capture the rich array of emotions that accompany the most fabulous human
phenomena—falling in love.

Thursday, February 16, 2017

Gavin
Rossi is one sexy piece of Eye Candy wrapped in a tight body and sweet smile.
The hot breath on his neck, the mesmerizing rhythm as he rolls his hips, the
strong chest rising and falling beneath his hands make for a distraction he’s
terrified to see play out.

When
Dutch Williamson feels a set of perfectly sculpted thighs slipping over his
lap, the last thing his liquor-hazed brain registers is this is my future. The
tempting piece of Eye Candy grinding on his lap is going to cut him at the
knees, and he knows it.

This
is a dance. This is a tease. God, this is so much more.

Excerpt:

Gavin
stood by the marble-top island. “We need to discuss rent.” He stuffed his hands
in the pockets of his faded jeans. “Between the two jobs, I can pay you
something. I don’t expect a handout. I need to do my part.”

Everything
had turned upside down. Being alone and content no longer counted for anything
good in his life. Once again, the privileges of his birth were humbling. He
shut the door. The guy had pride. Fighting the urge to pull those sexy hips
into his hands, he passed the island and looked over his shoulder. “You coming?
You can pick which room you want and…we’ll discuss the logistics in the morning
when you come to the restaurant for your interview.”

He
stopped, giving Gavin time to catch up at the staircase.

“You
were serious, weren’t you? I um, I really didn’t expect you to offer me a job.
I figured I could get a good night’s sleep, you’d wake up and regret asking me
to be a tenant, and I’d have to take off, but now it feels different.”

Dutch
stopped when they reached the top of the stairs. “I told you, you’re safe with
me. If you stay around, you’ll see I’m telling the truth. Every bedroom has a
lock. Use it if you feel you need to, but know it’s your space, and I’ll
respect that.”

Gavin
took the bag to sling it over his shoulder. “What if I don’t want to lock the
door?”

Pauline
lives in the Midwest with her hero husband, two handsome boys, one ornery cat,
and a lovely Pitbull. She enjoys writing erotic romance for all readers. From
MM contemporary romance series to LGBT fairytales, Pauline shares stories that
she holds close to her heart. By day Pauline is a special care baby registered
nurse and by night a hopeless romantic. She loves to travel to New Orleans
twice a year to recharge her creative battery and enjoy a bag full of powdered
sugar covered beignets. Sit down, relax and Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

The Black Sheep and the Rotten
Apple is the kind of book that just needed to be written, despite
our already tight schedule. The idea first came to us when we watched a
documentary about highwaymen, but we promised ourselves to wait. And then we
went to Cornwall for a month, and initial plans collapsed. As we walked through
the woods, watching the lush nature and the old stone cottages peppered on both
sides of a valley where we were staying, the characters and story steadily came
to us. Our aim was to write a historical book that provides as much excitement
as readers learned to expect from our contemporary romance.

If you want to see our
inspiration photos for this book, check out the ‘Black Sheep and the Rotten
Apple Pinterest board:

The Black Sheep and the Rotten
Apple is our baby. It’s been a year since we started working on
this book, and to celebrate its release, we’re organizing a quiz for readers
who follow The Black Sheep and the Rotten Apple blog tour. Answers to
all questions will be provided in the blog posts, and we will then randomly
pick the lucky winners. You can win:

a signed paperback of The Black Sheep and the
Rotten Apple + a selection of Cornish treats (main prize - for one person)

3 ebooks of choice from our backlist + a
surprise treat from Cornwall (will go to 3 more people)

For a chance to win, follow the
instructions in blog posts and solve the quiz, which will be published on our
website on 1st February 2017.
Please, send answers to kamerikan@gmail.com
with ‘Black Sheep Quiz’ in the subject line of the email.

Winners will be randomly chosen
from readers who sent us correct answers by 17th February 2017.

“How does one start a
relationship with another man when it is forbidden?”

“One needs to decide that the other man is worth dying for.”

Cornwall, 1785

Sir Evan Penhart. Baronet.
Highwayman. Scoundrel.

Julian Reece. Writer. Wastrel.
Penniless.

No one forces Julian Reece to
marry. Not his father, not his brother. No one.

When he is thrust into a carriage
heading for London to meet his future bride, his way out comes in the form of
an imposing highwayman, riding a horse as black as night. Julian makes a deal
with the criminal, but what he doesn’t expect is that despite the title of
baronet, the robber turns out to be no gentleman.

Sir Evan Penhart is pushed into
crime out of desperation, but the pact with a pretty, young merchant’s son
turns out to have disastrous consequences. Not only is Evan left broke, but
worse yet, Julian opens up a Pandora’s box of passions that are dark, needy,
and too wild to tame. With no way to lock them back in, rash decisions and
greedy desire lead to a tide that wrecks everything in its way.

But Julian might actually like
all the sinful, carnal passion unleashed on him. How can he admit this though,
even to himself, when a taste of the forbidden fruit could have him end up with
a noose around his neck? And with highway robbery being a hanging offense and
the local constable on their back, Julian could lose Evan before he can decide
anything about the nature of his desires.

The sun was high up in the sky by
the time the desynchronized orchestra left Julian’s skull. There wasn’t enough
space to properly lie down anywhere in the carriage, but he managed to obtain a
comfortable position by resting his legs up the wooden wall while his upper
body occupied one of the benches. He still felt like the filling of an enormous
rattle as the carriage bent in all possible directions on the uneven road
leading away from the coast.

Horace didn’t even make an
attempt to hold back his disapproval, but after delivering several biting
comments and a lengthy speech about duty, he at last leaned against the side of
the carriage in the seat across from Julian and closed his eyes. It was
difficult to say whether he was truly in need of a nap or if it was Julian’s
face that he didn’t wish to look at.

With his headache out of the way
yet not quite well enough to read, Julian opened the curtains in hope of amusing
himself with the views, but so far, he merely got to see the side of a narrow
gully—all dirt and grass.

He couldn’t understand why Father
was being so implacable about having his youngest son marry a title. Couldn’t
it wait a fortnight so that Julian could finish that new novel he came up with
last night? This one could truly be the breakthrough Julian had been waiting
for, the one that would make the Reece family known for more than fabric trade.

Inspiration was a moment in time
when Julian’s friend Martin emerged from the darkness of an alley behind the
tavern. In that very second he had not resembled himself but a man made of
bronze, dreamlike and yet of substance, with strong hands that could crush
Julian if they wanted. The novel would start with a similar encounter somewhere
in the narrow back alleys, just off the Colosseum. Haunted by the ghost of an
ancient gladiator, the protagonist would be believed to be slowly descending
into madness, when in reality his awareness of the supernatural would become a
vehicle for truth.

Julian was not yet certain of the
exact message he wished to convey, but the events would be presented from
several points of view, through letters written by the protagonist, his
friends, and an official of some sort who’d represent the stale world order.

He’d already had several
beautifully evocative ideas for metaphors describing the gladiator himself, but
they became somewhat blurry after a night of cards and drink.

Oh, if only he could travel to
Rome to let the atmosphere of the city soak him all the way to the bone—without
a wife fighting for his attention and pulling him away from work because of
feminine fancies.

He looked out of the window with
growing disdain. Who in their right mind traveled on Sunday, and so early at that?
Julian would have much preferred listening to a sermon at church to spending
the day in what was effectively a hearse carrying one of the brightest literary
talents just waiting to be discovered.

Now that Julian was feeling
better, he was upset with himself about not asking for a day’s delay on
religious grounds. He’d never been as devout about prayer as he was about his
art, but if the Christian faith could postpone his commitment to a woman he
never met, he would gladly kneel and pray. And Miss White wasn’t even a woman
but a girl of fifteen, quite pretty in the portrait Julian had been shown, and
a viscount’s only daughter at that, but surely as hungry for her intended’s
attention as the bawdy house wench who’d become sweet on Julian some years ago.

Back then, he still visited
Madame Canard’s establishment to do what everyone else did when they visited a
school of Venus. These days, Julian had neither the overwhelming desire nor
patience to handle a cunt, no matter how lovely the lady it was attached to. He
still enjoyed having a drink with the harlots, and no card table within twenty
miles was as lively as the one at Madame Canard’s, but at twenty-five he’d much
rather handle needs of the flesh in solitude.

Sweet perfume made his nose itch,
the act itself made him unpleasantly sticky—with his sweat and hers—and while
he would not dare to ask, it was his suspicion that the friends who usually
accompanied him to the brothel were only whoring so much because of pride and
bravado. It was a sign of status to be able to afford women and decent wine
daily, and so fucking and gambling was the thing you did as a social activity.

Julian’s eyes darted to Horace,
who slept with his head thrown back and leaning against the side of the
carriage. His wide-open mouth was asking for a distasteful prank, but Julian
was far too upset to think of amusing himself at Horace’s expense. So far, the
day’s joke was on him.

In the years past, he’d been
mocked by his father and siblings over not taking on a profession that they
deemed worthy of a gentleman, but with the family being very prosperous, Julian
saw no reason to divert his focus from his one true calling.

Despite frequent threats, he’d
hoped that Father—having four willing sons and three daughters—wouldn’t push
Julian into marriage, but it seemed a lost cause. Soon it would be a wife
nagging Julian to stop wasting his time following intellectual pursuits and
instead turn his attention to practical matters. As the head of his own family,
maybe he’d even be pushed to join the family trade, one step farther from
traveling abroad to meet the great artists of the continent.

The carriage started a steep
climb up a hill, and Julian cursed, pushing the soles of his boots against the
wall to keep his body from rolling off the narrow bench. How long would it take
for them to reach London at this pace? It was over two hundred miles away, so a
week perhaps? The last time Julian had made the journey, he was so intoxicated
most days that he couldn’t properly count them.

But out of nowhere, as the slope
of the hill became gentler, the ugly dirt and grass that had been Julian’s only
source of entertainment for the last half an hour were replaced by lush
greenery of tree tops. He grinned and glanced at Horace, but the fat sod was
too busy snoring to notice the change in scenery.

A wicked plan was starting to
take shape in Julian’s head, and he quietly removed his feet from the side of
the carriage and lowered them to the floor. Pulling himself upright was easy
enough after that, and he stalled, eyes transfixed on the permanently flushed
face of his brother that was an unappetizing contrast with the white wig he
wore, and made him look like a man many years his senior. Julian might be less
inclined to business, less sedate than his siblings, but at the very least he
had good taste and flair most of Julian’s family lacked, buried deep in the
stern world of pretense and money.

Horace didn’t even stir. The old
pig was fast asleep, and if that wasn’t Julian’s chance to save his life, he
didn’t know what was. Careful not to make any sound, Julian gathered his valise
and the coat he’d earlier taken off because of the heat, stilling when the
carriage came to a halt. His eyes immediately darted to Horace, but his brother
only smacked his lips in his sleep. Hunt could have stopped to relieve himself.
What an opportunity this was!

Julian could feel his heartbeat
in his throat when he softly pressed on the door handle. Still distinctly aware
of his brother being close enough for their knees to touch, were Julian not
careful enough. He opened the carriage and left it in a soft stride before
closing the door with care.

A warm breeze combed through his
hair, wiping away the unpleasant wetness of sweat, and his lungs filled with
fresh air, but he didn’t get to enjoy it.

The shining muzzle of a pistol
was grinning at him from inches away.

Despite the warm weather,
Julian’s whole body was shaken by a chill when his gaze met a pair of eyes so
dark they might as well have been lacquered coals.

The man had a tricorn hat pulled
low over his forehead, and a black scarf obscuring the lower half of his face.

This can’t be happening.

“Don’t try to scream, or I will
blow your brains out.” The man squinted and lowered his gun to Julian’s pupil.
“Through the eye.”

Julian opened his mouth as his
throat closed, robbing him of breath. He wanted to look back, suddenly wishing
Horace weren’t such an easy sleeper, but Hunt was nowhere to be seen either.
Heat washed over Julian’s body, making him stiffen as if he were made of clay.
Had this man hurt their coachman? If so, where was the body?

“What do you want?” Julian
whispered, resting his hand on the door handle when his knees softened.

“These.” A hand in a leather
glove gripped Julian’s sweaty fingers and slipped off his rings. “And all your
other valuables.” The man didn’t even blink, his voice dark as if dragged
through tar.

Julian stared, and his mind
finally came up with the answer for what this was. “You’re a highwayman...”

“And you’re cork-brained to
travel on a Sunday when the roads are empty.” The man’s gaze drifted away to
Horace for a split second, but he must have judged him as no threat, and when
Horace snored from inside the carriage, the highwayman chuckled quietly.

Julian’s lungs emptied, and a
silly grin emerged on his face, encouraged by the highwayman’s amusement. “Ah,
I should have gone to church after all.”

The smile died on his lips when
the robber poked Julian’s temple with his gun.

“Your valuables,” he urged.

Julian clenched his teeth when
they threatened to clatter. He needed to keep calm. His father believed his
friends to be villains, so he could handle one. “I’ve been taken out of the
tavern this morning with nothing but the clothes on my back. I lost everything
at the tables. You should try my older brother.

He’s Father’s heir. He should
have a healthy sum on him.”

The highwayman gripped the front
of Julian’s waistcoat and pulled him forward so hard Julian stumbled straight
into the man’s arms. He was much taller than Julian, with wide shoulders that
were so strong their size couldn’t be just padding. His clothes smelled of
leather and horse sweat, and Julian found himself staring into the eyes above
the black scarf.

Before he could say a word, the
man turned him around, and pressed the gun to the side of his head.

“Go on, wake up your brother.”

Julian breathed in and out, stiff
with discomfort at the warm body pressed against his back as if the highwayman
was seeking warmth. The gun provided some relief against heated skin. Its
presence made Julian’s blood speed through his veins. It wouldn’t go off.
Murder wasn’t in the robber’s interest, but if that was the case, then where
the hell was Hunt?

Then an idea illuminated Julian’s
mind. “I have a proposition, Mister—”

The highwayman stilled. He’d be
lying. Of course. “Noir,” he said in the end. “What kind of proposition can you
have, pretty boy? With no money in your pockets.”

Something about Noir’s tone sent
a hot shiver through Julian’s ribcage, but he ignored the condescending words
and slowly looked back into the blackest eyes he’d ever seen. “I don't have
much on me, but you must know my father. He’s William Reece, the cloth
merchant. You could take me and ask for ransom. We could split it between us
like two gentlemen,” he whispered and gave Noir a polite nod. Appealing to the
highwayman’s self-importance should do the trick. His kind were known for a
love of opulence and status they didn’t deserve.

He must have managed to surprise
the thief, because Noir’s grip on him faltered. “How much could I ask for a son
who hates his father?”

Julian exhaled in relief when he
felt Noir’s aggression turn away from him. “A lot. He needs me. I’m worth more
than you can imagine,” he said with a small smile.

Noir stole another glance at
Horace sleeping in the back of the carriage, and his gloved hand slid to
Julian’s neck, squeezing around his nape in a way that had Julian rising to his
toes. “You better be. You scream, or try to run, and I will kill you.”

Julian swallowed against the
warm, soft leather. It felt surprisingly expensive. Might have been snatched
from a gentleman. “I don’t doubt that,” he lied. “However, we share a common
goal, friend.”

“Call me ‘friend’ once this is
all over.” Noir shook his head and pushed Julian behind the carriage, where a
gloriously jet-black stallion awaited its rider, and watched Julian with eyes
as dark as Noir’s.

“I hope you haven’t hurt our
driver. He’s a good fellow,” said Julian, smiling at the huge beast in front of
him.

“He’ll live. Your brother will
find him once he wakes up.”

Julian was sure there had to be a
hint of a smile under that black scarf. When Noir put the gun inside his coat,
Julian tried to assess the man more thoroughly.

The black leather riding coat was
worn but of good quality. Could have been stolen too, but the clothes
underneath, as black as everything the man wore, were clean, suggesting the
highwayman wasn’t sleeping rough somewhere. Unless he dressed up for robbery.

Julian opened his mouth to
comment on the beauty of the horse, but Noir spun Julian around and pulled back
his hands.

“Good heavens. We’re partners,”
Julian whispered with distaste. Hot and cold sweats were hitting him in rapid
waves, and he couldn’t tell whether he was scared or excited about this new
development. Once he got out of this, he could write a novel about the peril of
travellers attacked by rogues while driving through a dark, rainy forest, and
with a bit of poetic license, call it a true story.

“I haven’t decided on that yet,”
said Noir, and a cold shiver went down Julian’s back at the proficiency with
which the man tied his hands. A former sailor perhaps? That wouldn’t bode well,
as those types rarely possessed the intellectual capability for complicated
schemes. His speech was also far too refined to have been only recently
acquired. Damnation!

“Mr. Noir. I’d much rather ride
with my hands free. You see, I’ve been incapacitated by gin just this morning,
and I don’t feel secure enough without my hands to assist me yet. I assure you,
I am harmless.”

Once Noir had tied Julian’s
hands, he turned him around. “Now you are. Up.” And just as Julian was
wondering how exactly he was supposed to climb atop the tall beast, the
scoundrel grabbed his legs and picked him up. Julian barely refrained from
screaming. It was no way to handle a gentleman, and yet he couldn’t help but be
amazed by Noir’s physical prowess.

Definitely a sailor. A naval
officer, perhaps.

Julian’s face flushed with heat
when he imagined his bottom sticking out like a whore’s ass at a party. Good
grief, what had he gotten himself into? What was next? Being kidnapped by
pirates?

His foot found the stirrup, and
he exhaled with relief, pushing his other leg over the horse’s hindquarters
until he straddled its back. “I see no reason for this kind of treatment,
considering it was I who came up with a most lucrative opportunity for you.”

“Keep that up, and I will gag
you.” Noir was quick to get on the horse himself as soon as he’d attached
Julian’s coat and valise to the saddle. Julian felt completely overwhelmed when
the man reached for the reins, all but embracing him.

Julian shuddered and curled his
shoulders to not be in the way, though no matter what he did, the shape of the
saddle brought them close together.

“You’re a scoundrel. Another man in your
profession would have treated me right.”

Noir laughed darkly. “You are
correct, sir. How could I have forgotten.” Even though the mockery had him
exaggerate the polite accent, Julian was becoming certain that Noir’s natural
speech was not that of someone uneducated.

Before Julian understood what was
happening, Noir pulled a burlap sack over his head.

“I will scream,” whispered
Julian, staring through the dots of light in the smelly thing. He squeezed his
hands into fists and pushed them hard against Noir’s stomach. His mind was
rattling again, as if the drunkenness returned with full force.

“No one will hear you where we’re
going.”

“Julian?” came a sleepy voice
from the carriage.

Noir’s thighs tensed, and he must
have urged his mount to rush, as it went almost straight into gallop.

Julian screamed at the top of his
lungs. “Horace!”

The stallion flew forward, and
without the aid of his hands, Julian was forced to hang on to it with his legs
alone, shaken like a rattle. The rapid gait moved him back and forth over the
front of the saddle, making Julian stiffen and push back against the firm chest
behind him. Without seeing where they were going, Julian tried to hold on to
anything he had on hand, and as it happened, it was probably Noir’s waistcoat.
If the horse tripped, at least they would stumble and break their bones
together. Or maybe the villain would cushion Julian’s fall in a well-meaning
act of God.

It was Sunday.

Meet the Author:

K. A. Merikan is the pen name for
Kat and Agnes Merikan, a team of writers, who are mistaken for sisters with
surprising regularity. Kat’s the mean sergeant and survival specialist of the
duo, never hesitating to kick Agnes’s ass when she’s slacking off. Her memory
works like an easy-access catalogue, which allows her to keep up with both book
details and social media. Also works as the emergency GPS. Agnes is the Merikan
nitpicker, usually found busy with formatting and research. Her attention tends
to be scattered, and despite being over thirty, she needs to apply makeup to
buy alcohol. Self-proclaimed queen of the roads.

They love the weird and
wonderful, stepping out of the box, and bending stereotypes both in life and
books. When you pick up a Merikan book, there’s one thing you can be sure of -
it will be full of surprises.

Monday, February 6, 2017

The
long-suffering crew of the Prayer have found a home. They’ve got a harvest. Now
it’s time for a holiday. But while the captain was looking forward to a day
spent lying on his back, he’d wanted it to be as a result of a prolonged
food-and-sex coma, not arthritis…

His
hands trembling with anticipation, Thomas held the warm brown loaf up to his
face and breathed in, sighing as the smell of real bread made with real flour
flooded his nostrils.

It’s
slightly burnt on the underside, said Echo, who stood by the oven, watching his
reaction closely. Do you want a knife?

Shaking
his head, Thomas set the loaf down and tore off a chunk from the corner,
shivering at the sound of the crust cracking open. He stuffed it into his mouth
and waited a second before he started to chew. As the warmth and flavour spread
over his tongue, he made the sort of noise he generally reserved for when
Khurshed hit his prostate dead-on. Bread had been one of the many, many things
he’d taken for granted back on Earth, only eating it when it was so loaded down
with strawberry jam and peanut butter he didn’t even notice its taste or
texture. What a spoiled idiot he’d been.

So?
asked Echo.

Swallowing
and smacking his lips, he said, “I’m starting a new religion. We’re all going
to worship this bread now.”

Echo
blushed, bowed, and allowed Thomas to kiss his forehead. It was a shade browner
than it had been the last time Thomas’s lips had touched it; finally, after
almost a year living on Yusra’s surface, Echo’s milk-white skin was beginning
to tan.

“Where’d
you learn to make something like that, huh? Did you go to a fancy cooking
school?”

I
wanted to when I was a teenager. The only culinary academy on the Moon was
expensive, though. I learnt to bake while I was working as a waiter in a pastry
café; the manager let me experiment in the kitchen after-hours.

“You’re
so talented, babe. And cute. And smart. And nice.”

No,
you can’t have the whole loaf to yourself. It’s our first, and I promised
everyone a slice.

Thomas
mewled disappointedly as Echo took it back and set it down on the tray before
adding, I’m making more loaves for Thanksgiving. You can gorge yourself then.

“We
aren’t celebrating Thanksgiving,” Antoine huffed, striding into the kitchen.
“Our first official holiday on this planet is not going to honour that tasteless
American celebration of colonialism, gastronomic excess, and wanton cruelty to
animals.”

As
he spoke, he washed his dirt-covered hands in the sink and then poured himself
a glass of water. He was wearing a grimy shirt and shorts that exposed his legs
and knobby knees to the world, so he’d probably spent the morning foraging for
specimens or visiting the nearby ruins again. His legs were building up some
decent calf muscles, Thomas noted, and his biceps were getting more defined
from all the time he spent lugging his equipment around. He still wasn’t
Thomas’s type―pretty face or not, men that skinny just didn’t do it for him―but
Thomas was sure Zachery and Khurshed appreciated it.

Thomas
shrugged. “It makes sense, Ant. We’re celebrating food.”

Specifically,
they were celebrating Rick’s successful harvest and the resultant fact that
bread was making its long-awaited re-entry into their diets.

“There
are plenty of harvest-related holidays that aren’t as thoroughly appalling as
Thanksgiving,” Antoine said, his nostrils twitching as Echo passed him the
still-warm loaf. He picked up a knife and cut himself a dainty slice. “The
Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival, the Slavic Saviour of the Apple Feast Day, the
Igbo New Yam Festival…”

He
paused to take a bite, and then another. “The… That other one… Dear God, Echo,
this amazing.”

I
still think celebrating Halloween would be fun, said Echo, after prying the
loaf from Antoine’s grasp before he could devour it whole. Everyone likes
costumes and ghost stories. And it’s also historically related to the harvest,
so it’s appropriate.

“Echo,
you just want an opportunity to use your morbid cookie cutter collection again.
I’ve ingested enough decapitated gingerbread men for one lifetime, thank you.
Besides, you know as well as I do that our captain would take it as an excuse
to wear that lewd pirate costume of his, which would hardly be appropriate for
a social gathering.”

Nodding,
Thomas added, “Yeah, plus Rick and Zachery would both want to be the pirate
queen, and we’ve only got one skirt.”

“Debates
about the name of our celebration aside, how are preparations going?” Antoine
asked, leaning on the table. “I know Mehtab and Khali are festooning the mess
hall with hideous decorations.”

“I’m
helping Echo with the cooking, Zachery’s handling the music, and Rick said he
was organizing ‘entertainment’.”

“Weed.”

“You
don’t know that. It could be dodgeball. Or card games.”

“It’s
weed, Thomas.”

The
entertainer himself barrelled into the kitchen, almost knocking Antoine over.
“Oops! Sorry. Hey, guys, guess what I found to make our Thanksgiving complete?”

In
response to their blank stares, Rick showed them what he’d been hiding behind
his back. “A turkey!”

“Gobble,”
said Rux solemnly.

“Oh
good grief,” Antoine muttered as Thomas snickered into his hand.

“Rick,
you’re fucking twisted.”

“I
am pleased and honoured to have been invited to participate in your
festivities,” said the enormous green bird, fluffing out its feathers. “Rick
told me this form would be most appropriate.”